CHAPTER XIX
A BITTER PARTING
Leicester had spoken the truth when he had said, in answer to the captain's inquiry, that he had been out to see the ghost.
But he had another object.
Since the morning when he had come upon the captain seated in the ruined chapel he could not rid himself of the suspicion that the captain was implicated in the eavesdropping of his servant, Jem, and that the astute and plausible master was the prime mover and director of some plot, while Jem was only the machine or tool.
Thereupon, not being able to sleep, partly from his unhappiness concerning Violet, and his disquietude born of his suspicion, he had sauntered out and made his way to the Park.
While there he had caught a glimpse of the ghost flitting past the ruins.
He was about to pursue it when he saw the captain emerging from behind the bush.
Instantly suspecting that it was one of the gang, he bore down upon him, as we have seen.
And now he told himself he was as far from the truth as ever.
Like the captain, he sank into a chair and gave himself up to thought, with this result:
"Why should I waste time and energy on a futile object? It is like a horse turning a mill to grind wind! Violet Mildmay will marry Lord Fitz, the intellectual and the talented! She has made up her mind to marry a coronet," he murmured, bitterly, "and she would not marry Leicester Dodson, the tallow-melter's son, if he remained hanging at her apron strings until doomsday. As for Captain Howard Murpoint, he may be an honest man and he may not. I was not born to solve the problem or to bring him to justice. Let the world wag on its way; as for me, I will arise, shake off this infatuation, for it is nothing better, and seek fresh fields and pastures new. I shall have something to do in Africa, and I shall forget her."
He took from the drawers a quantity of necessary articles of clothing and packed them in the portmanteau. When it was filled he locked it and attached a label addressed, "To be taken in the yacht to the Isle of Man, where the skipper will put in until I come."
"I'll go overland," he muttered, "to cut the journey short, and they shall pick me up there."
Then he carried the portmanteau into his dressing-room and placed it where his valet could see it.
The man was used to acting on such curt and sudden instructions, and would convey the portmanteau, with its terse command, to the skipper of the yacht the first thing in the morning.
Having made his arrangements so far, Leicester slowly undressed and got to bed.
"I must wake early," he thought. "Bertie is going to-morrow, and must know of my intended flight or he would feel hurt."
But the morning came and he was sound asleep when Bertie knocked at the door.
"I'm going, old fellow," he called through the keyhole. "Don't get out of bed. Good-by; I shall be back in a couple of days."
"Good-by," said Leicester, drowsily, half asleep and half awake, and Bertie was gone.
Could either have forseen even for twenty hours how different would have been the parting of the friends!
When he came into the breakfast-room he found his mother, fond and thoughtful ever, waiting at the table to see that he had his breakfast comfortably.
"Has Bert gone?" he asked.
"Yes," said Mrs. Dodson, with a little laugh. "He and your father went off together; and I was almost glad to get rid of them, for Mr. Fairfax fidgeted dreadfully."
After breakfast, Leicester, who felt anything but cheerful and high-spirited, strolled out to the cliff.
He looked down at the sea and missed the yacht from the harbor directly.
"Sailed," he thought. "All the better. I will wait until Bert comes back, and then hurrah for Afric's golden sands."
He might say "hurrah!" but he did not feel very jubilant.
With a not altogether unaccountable heaviness he sauntered down to the village.
All was going on as usual, and as he passed the "Blue Lion" he saw the usual little knot of idlers collected at the bar.
Among the voices he could distinguish that of Jem Starling's raised in turbulent tones.
Then he passed down the street to the beach.
The fishermen were busy with their nets, and old Job, the carrier, stood, with pipe in mouth, looking on.
The men touched their caps, and Job gave him a rough, kindly good-day.
Ten minutes afterward, and before he was scarcely out of sight, Captain Murpoint came down the path, sauntering very much after Leicester's fashion, with a Bengal cheroot in his mouth.
With his placid smile upon his face he sauntered down the beach.
"Well, my men," he said, "good night's fishing? Beautiful morning," and then passed on.
But as he passed Job he whispered in his ear:
"Meet me at sunset behind the chapel. There is danger."
Job, by a motion with his pipe, intimated that he heard and would comply, and the captain, in his turn, passed on.
He, too, as he had gone by the "Blue Lion" had heard the strident tones of Jem's harsh voice and had felt rather disgusted.
As he returned he looked in and saw Jem leaning against the bar in a state bordering upon intoxication.
Jem saw him, but instead of welcoming him with a respectful salute scowled fiercely and sullenly.
The captain thought that it was feigned, and with a cool, "Good-morning, my man. So you've not left the village yet," was about to stroll on, but Jem, upon whom a great change had fallen, rendering him suspicious of every one, even of his lord and master, shambled on after him.
"What d'ye mean?" he hiccoughed. "Didn't yer tell me to stop here? Why don't yer say what yer mean? What's a man to do to please yer?"
The captain, with an alarmed and passionate frown on his face, turned upon him, and after glancing round to see if any one was near, said, savagely:
"Silence, you idiot! Go home, and come to me to-night, in the chapel."
"No, I don't," returned Jem, with a half-drunken shake of the head. "I don't go near no chapels! I've had enough of them!"
"The cliff, then," said the captain, torn by passion and the fear that some one would overhear them. "The cliff, you miserable hound. Come sober, for there's work to do. Do you understand?"
"I understand," said Jem, sullenly. "I'm sensible enough, ain't I?"
The captain's reply was a look so full of ominous evil that if a look could kill Jem's days would have been ended there and then.
There was no time to say more, for footsteps were approaching.
The captain hurried on, bursting with rage and apprehension.
Lord Fitz rose to meet him as he entered the drawing-room.
On his boyish face there was an anxious, nervous look which would at any other time have greatly amused the captain.
"How do you do, captain?" he said, shaking hands twice in an absent, flustered manner. "I – I came over to see Mrs. Mildmay – I mean Miss Mildmay, but she can't be found. Mrs. Mildmay's gone to look for her. You haven't seen her, I suppose?"
"No," said the captain, smiling. "She won't be found far off, I expect. I know some of her favorite seats. Why don't you go and help to search?"
"Oh, I don't know whether she'd like it, you know," said his lordship, with a wise shake of the head.
"Faint heart never won fair lady," said the captain, significantly.
Lord Fitz flushed and looked at him eagerly.
"What do you mean?" he stammered. "Do you know what I've come about, eh? You don't mean to say – "
Then it flashed upon the captain that Lord Fitz had come to propose for Violet's hand.
Here was another tangle!
With a readiness not to be too much commended, the captain pretended to misunderstand him.
"Ah, ha! some sly plan for an outing or a picnic, eh? Well, well, we must find her. Ah, here is Mrs. Mildmay," he said, quickly, as Mrs. Mildmay entered the room.
"I am so sorry, Lord Boisdale," she said, "but Violet is in her room, with a bad headache, and sent me to ask you to excuse her."
"Cer – tainly," said Lord Fitz, half relieved and half disappointed. "I – I think I'll go now. I'm sorry Vio – I mean Miss Mildmay – has a headache. Can I call at the doctor's as I go back – I mean, can I do anything?"
"Oh, no, thank you," said Mrs. Mildmay.
Then Lord Fitz took up his hat and nervously said good-by.
The midday post brought a letter from Mr. Thaxton.
He would have the honor of waiting upon Miss Mildmay on the morrow.
The letter broke the dreary monotony of the day, for Violet had kept to her rooms and put in no appearance at dinner.
The evening was setting in, cool and pleasant, the air seemed to woo her from her retreat.
She caught up her sun-hat, and with an attempt at gayety ran downstairs onto the lawn.
Opening a side gate, she stepped into the lane.
Still keeping up the effort to appear gay, if she really was not, she tripped along, singing, in a low, sweet voice, a merry refrain, the very refrain which she had sung with Lord Fitz.
The lane was a pretty one, little used, the grass in its center being scarcely trodden, and Violet, in her light muslin, looked like some Pagan pastoral divinity dropped from Paradise to cull earth's flowers. Beautiful, indeed, she looked to Leicester Dodson as, coming round the green, flower-grown corner, he came suddenly upon her.
"What a beautiful evening," he said, scarcely knowing what she said. "I have been gathering some wild flowers."
"So I see," he said, curtly, looking down at them. "It is almost a needless sacrifice, considering the hectacombs of choicer ones offered daily; you have flowers in abundance on your tables. But it is a woman's way to spoil and spare not. It does not matter, Miss Mildmay, flowers are but flowers and of little consequence. But there are other things higher in the scale which a woman gathers with reckless mood, to fling aside with wanton scorn. You ask me what they are?" he continued, standing stern and passionate before her. "I answer – hearts. 'Hearts are only hearts,' you may reply, but I tell you, Miss Mildmay, as one who speaks from sad experience, that a man's heart counts for something in the universe, and that a man's life is too high a thing to be wasted for a woman's toy."
He paused a moment.
Violet, who had stood silent and motionless, was silent still, but a burning flush of indignation flushed to her face.
He mistook it for conscious guilt and shame, and it maddened him.
"I speak harshly," he said. "But I pray you pardon me if for to-night, the last night I shall have the happiness of seeing you, I cast off the falsities of conventionality and speak as a man wronged and injured to the woman who has wronged and injured him. That I cannot heal the wound you have inflicted on me I am assured; but I may prevent you wounding others. You are young, Miss Mildmay, and there is a life before you in which you will have it in your power to save hearts or break them. I ask you to-night, here and now, to decide. I implore you to cast off the coquette and to be, what you are at heart, a woman true and noble! Be contented with the harm you have done, and lay aside the power of which my wasted life is the dire evidence – "
He paused, more for lack of breath than words and passion to speak them, and then Violet found her tongue.
"Sir!" she said, in that suppressed voice which tells of the heart's conflict. "Are you mad?"
"No!" he said, hoarsely, "but I have been. I am sane now, Miss Mildmay, sane and sorrowful. The glamour which you had cast over me I have driven off. I see you in your true light, and I rise from the trance which your beauty has wooed me to. Violet – for I will call you by that name once and for the last time – you taught me to love you but to scorn the slave who knelt at your feet. You made me a toy to be cast aside when the new one should come. It came, and your slave, your toy, was forgotten, or remembered only in your contempt. You the fair, and I – Well, being a man with a heart, I was foolish. But, oh, shame, that one so fair should be so false."
"False!" breathed Violet, her eyes flashing, her lips trembling with indignation and passionate agony.
"Ay, false!" he retorted, sternly. "False to the pure promptings of your own nature, false to your own heart, and false to mine. Enough; forgive me if you can, I do not doubt you will forget me; but forgive me, if you can, for speaking as I have done. Do not dread another reproach or accusation. You will never again hear either from these lips. They should have uttered none now, but the heart will assert itself sometimes, do what we will to keep it silent. Mine has spoken for the last time."
He stopped and waited motionless and stern as a statue, or some pagan at the altar on which his dearest lay sacrificed.
Violet would have spoken, but she had no words. His words weighed all hers back – choked them on her lips.
He waited for the reply. None came. He took her silence as a confession of guilt.
So he turned, and, with drooped head, left her, mistaken and blind to the last.
Not a very great distance from the spot where the lovers were going through their stormy interview and farewell, the captain was waiting for Job to explain to him the danger of which he had given due notice.
Another minute and Job emerged cautiously from behind the laurels.
"Come," said the captain, glancing at the horizon, "you are late."
"Can't help it, cap'n," said Job, with a shake of the head. "I been hanging about here waitin' for an opportunity for the last hour; somebody's been about, too close for me to get near you."
"Who?" asked the captain.
"Maester Leicester," replied Job.
"I thought so," said the captain, beckoning Job to come farther under the shadow of the ruined arches. "I thought so, Job; it was to speak of him I wanted you here."
He then recounted his adventures of the preceding night after parting from Job and Willie, concluding, emphatically:
"So, if Leicester Dodson has not already discovered the secret, he will do so before many hours are past, to be sure."
Job looked as grave as the captain could desire.
"It's an orkard thing," he muttered. "Who'd 'a' thought as Maester Leicester would 'a' taken the trouble to go looking about after anything? Nobody must interfere, whether it be Maester Leicester or any one else. What I'm grieved at is that it should be him."
"But, bein' him, what then?" asked the captain.
"Why, we'll have to – "
Job paused.
"What's that?" he asked, as a quick, firm step was heard near them.
"It is he, Leicester Dodson," said the captain, as Leicester's stalwart figure moved past the lane. "He is always hanging about on the watch. Rest assured that very few nights will pass before he has unearthed the secret. Remember his own words to me."
Job looked seaward, and a determined light came into his eyes.
"He is going up the cliffs at a good pace," he said. "Perhaps he's going up to the coastguard now."
"Not unlikely," said the captain.
Job nodded, grimly.
"He must be got rid of."
The captain's heart beat fast.
"What!" he said. "You think it would be easy to tip Mr. Leicester over these cliffs?"
Job's face paled a little.
"Easy enough," he muttered; "but is there any occasion for such out and out work as that, cap'n? Look 'ee here," and, drawing the captain closer, he whispered something in his ear.
Captain Howard Murpoint nodded.
"I see," he said, musingly, his eyes fixed upon the figure of Leicester, which had dropped down upon the hot grass, with his face turned seaward. "I see. It is a good idea, and easily carried out."
"Well, let it go at that, cap'n," said Job, as if he had been striking a bargain. "Let it go at that. We meet here to-night, say at twelve. You'll work that part of the game, and leave the rest to me."
"Agreed," assented the captain, consulting his watch. And, after a few more words, the conspirators parted – Job stealing away down toward the beach, the captain carelessly passing through the wilderness of the ruined chapel to the trim kept lawns of the Park.
As he entered the hall, the servant brought him a note.
It was from the solicitor, Mr. Thaxton, and indicated that the writer would be at the Park on the morrow.
"To-morrow," he muttered; "there is no time to lose."
With an air of careless serenity, he entered the drawing-room, with the open letter in his hand.
For the moment, seeing no one, he thought that the room was empty, but, as he was about to leave it, he caught a glimpse of a muslin dress in a corner, and, going nearer, found that it was Violet, and that Violet herself was lying crouched in the semi-darkness as if asleep.
He laid his hand upon her shoulder lightly, and called her.
But the limp figure did not move, and, bending down, he saw that she was not asleep, but in a swoon.
Stepping back to the door, he closed it softly, and sprinkled some water from a caraffe upon her forehead.
It was some moments before Violet's eyes opened, and when they did, it was as if reluctant to return to the consciousness of her position.
Her lips parted slightly, and murmured:
"Leicester! You will not leave me?"
"So," thought the captain, "there has been a scene, and my loving lass has given way. That accounted for the pace at which my Lord Leicester was striding up the cliffs."
Then, aloud, he added:
"My dear Violet, the heat has been too much for you. Do you feel better now? Give me your hand," and, with the greatest gentleness, he raised her to a chair.
Violet struggled against the deadly confusion of mind and soul, and smiled faintly, as she said, wearily:
"Yes, it was the heat."
"Let me call Mrs. Mildmay," said the captain.
Violet rose, with difficulty, and stopped him in his assumed eagerness.
"Captain Murpoint," she said, looking at him from the depths of her great, sad eyes, "do not call any one." Then, with a louder tone and a closer scrutiny, she added: "How long have you been here in the room?"
"Some little time," said the captain. "But, pray, let me summon Mrs. Mildmay."
"No," said Violet. "'Some little time.' Tell me, truthfully, please, I implore you – have you heard me – have I said anything on any point that I would not have said had I been conscious?"
"I gathered from what you let slip – a few words, merely – that you had seen and been talking to Mr. Leicester Dodson."
Violet flushed for a moment, then turned deadly pale.
"Yes," she said. "Is that all?"
"My dear young lady," said the captain, "why distress yourself needlessly? Can you deem me so base, so dishonorable, as to be capable of repeating anything I may have heard? No," and he laid his hand upon his breast, and turned his face, with a hurt expression on it. "No, I am incapable of such measures toward any one, least of all to the daughter of my old friend, John Mildmay."
Violet's eyes moistened, and the captain, taking advantage of her weakness, instantly added:
"But, my dear Violet – if you will permit me to call you so – why distress yourself at all? Nothing is so bad but it can be mended. Lovers' quarrels are proverbially bitter only to turn sweet."
"Lovers' quarrels?" interrupted Violet, bitterly. "Do you think it was only that? Oh," she continued, eagerly, "if I could but believe that he did not mean or think all he said! If I could persuade myself that he did not scorn and despise me!"
"Tush! tush!" said the captain, with a gentle smile. "Leicester scorn, despise you? My dear young lady, he loves the very ground upon which you tread! Despise? He worships you!"
"No, no! He hates me!" said Violet, hiding her face. "He has started for – Africa," here she broke down, and sobbed aloud. "Gone – gone, thinking me all that he called me – heartless, vain, wicked – oh, so wicked!"
"Hush! hush!" said the captain, dreading that the girl's unusual excitement would result in a fit of hysterics, which would prove eminently inconvenient to him. "Hush, my dear girl; he has not gone. I saw him climbing the cliffs just now, looking as miserable as a starved jackal. There, let me go and fetch him back – you will thank me afterward; but you will hate yourself – and me, also – if you allow him to go. Africa is a fearful place."
Violet looked up suddenly.
"Yes, yes," she said, "I am a weak, foolish girl, but at least I would not have him go without hearing what I have to say. He – he may, perhaps, think less cruelly of me."
"I will go at once," said the captain, with eagerness. "I will tell him that, and" – he looked at her dress – "can I not take something in the shape of credentials? Ah, give me that rose at your bosom – you wore it when he saw you?"
Violet nodded, and commenced to unfasten it.
"Ah, he will remember it, without doubt," said the captain.
"Give him this," said Violet, in a low voice, taking out a lily from her little bouquet. "It will mean no more than I would have it mean – peace."
"I will," said the captain, snatching up his hat; "and rely upon my haste."
Then, with an affectionate nod, full of refined sympathy, he departed on his mission of peace-making.
The lily he stuck into his buttonhole, ready for use at the proper moment.
As he left the house, the stable clock struck ten.
Now, the captain did not want to see Mr. Leicester for at least an hour and a half.
He was also particularly anxious that the offended lovers should not meet in the meanwhile.
Therefore, he made a slight detour, and comfortably ensconced himself in the shrubbery, which commanded a view of the cliffs, the cedars, the road therefrom, and a part of the beach.
Leicester Dodson could not gain sight or speech of Violet without the captain's knowledge.
With an exercise of restraint and patience highly commendable, the schemer sat and smoked until the clock struck eleven.
Then he rose, and left his post of observation. It was almost dark, and the lights in the village twinkled in the valley like so many fireflies.
Very cautiously, after inspecting Violet's window, and satisfying himself by the light which burned in the window that Violet was still upstairs, he descended the hill, and, keeping close to the hedge, gained the village.
As it was positively necessary to the success of his plot that he should be seen by as few people as possible that evening, he diverged from the high street and approached the "Blue Lion" by a back way.
As he walked quickly thus far, he knew that Leicester could not have left the Cedars for his nightly promenade on the cliffs, or he, the captain, would have seen him.
The task before him, then, was to crouch behind the cluster of outbuildings behind the "Blue Lion", and wait for him.
By the noise and confusion inside the "Blue Lion", he could tell that Martha was preparing to turn "the boys" out, and he fancied that he could hear Jem's voice among the rest.
If it should be so, and the collision could be brought about between the drunken ruffian and Leicester Dodson, how much trouble would be spared him!
While he was listening and watching impatiently, he saw the star, which Jem had seen shoot up from the sea, and which the captain knew for the signal from the smuggler's vessel, rise into the air.
"They'll come now," he muttered. "They'll come; and that young idiot not here yet!"
Even as he spoke, and raised his hand to wipe the perspiration which excitement had raised upon his forehead, Martha's shrill voice could be heard.
"Out with you! You've had enough to-night, and more than enough! As for you, Jem Starling, you're a disgrace to the house, and I wish that master o' yours had hunted you out o' the village."
"He's no master o' mine," hiccoughed Jem's voice, as the small crowd poured out. "He's a nasty, mean sneak, as used me when he wanted me, and then turned me off! But he can't give me the sack so easily! I'll be even with him! I knows – I knows – "
"Come on, and hold your tongue!" cried two or three voices, and the captain knew that there were several hands dragging the drunken man away.
And, at that moment, Jem uttered a snarl, and the captain, peering out to ascertain the cause, saw that Leicester Dodson was striding down the path.